Freddy's Ascot
by Jazzola
Summary: Ever wondered how Freddy got the ascot he always wore in Where Are You?, and where it went? This is the story.


A young blond boy stood in front of his mirror at home, wearing his familiar white jumper, the one with the fewest stains from messing around in the garden, and jeans with a few holes in the knees. Behind him was a typical little boy's room, painted in blue and filled with the paraphernalia young boys seem to require.

The boy was holding something orange in his fingers, a scrap of fabric, an adult-size ascot if you looked closer. The fabric was crisp and new, just out of the packet, never worn before, and the boy smoothed his fingers over it, enjoying the feel of the cotton on his small fingers. On the label was a little message, since one side of the label was blank: _To Freddy, my nephew. I hope you will wear this, I know you will like it. From your uncle, James. _The boy's blue eyes scanned the message, smiling, remembering unwrapping it just a week or so ago for his eighth birthday. It felt familiar somehow, and Freddy knew where from; his uncle wore one. His uncle, in fact, wore one that was practically a replica of this one, only a little more worn.

Freddy slipped it onto his neck and tied it on, thinking he might look ridiculous and hoping not. He didn't want to be a little boy playing dress-up. He sneaked a glance in the mirror and breathed out a sigh of relief. It suited him! It emphasized his eyes and cheeks, although time would tell if that was a good thing.

"You're wearing the ascot, then?"

Freddy almost fell over in shock; he hadn't been aware that someone else was watching him. He swerved sharply and saw his dad, standing in the doorway smiling at him.

"James said you would, my boy. Come on, your mom's making breakfast. And keep it on, I think she'll like it."

Freddy smiled and followed his father, glancing up at the little wooden sign on the door: _Freddy's room. _All the shops had had the wrong name on their door signs, none of them had had his. So he and his uncle had sat down and made this one. Freddy smiled at the memory of shaping the capital F and his uncle laughing when he saw it and saying that Freddy had a deft hand when working with wood.

"You take after me," James had said, putting one arm round his nephew. He had other nephews, Freddy's brother Mitchell was one, but he spent the most time with Freddy. Maybe it was because Freddy was one of the youngest. Maybe it was because he lived closest. Or maybe it was simply the fact that Freddy had the most resemblance to him. Whatever the reason, the bond between boy and uncle was a close and strong one.

Mitchell was messily chewing on a spoonful of cereal, spitting globules of food out as he looked up.

"What's on your neck, kid?" he asked his brother, wiping a lump of cereal off his chin as he spoke. Freddy sighed and sat down on the opposite side of the table so as to avoid the food coming from his brother's mouth. Mr Jones took the bowl of cereal away as Mitchell stood up, messed his scruffy blond hair in the mirror as he tried to look cool and walked towards the door.

"Got to go, we at the senior school can't be late."

He grinned at his brother as he said it, and Freddy sighed; sometimes Mitchell tried to be superior, and he just had to smile and ignore him. It was a stage, and soon the older boy would grow out of it, but for the moment Freddy had the distinct feeling that he as an eight-year-old had more maturity than his brother, who was eleven. Mr Jones shut the door and burst out laughing.

"Freddy, it's like you're the older brother! Honestly!"

Freddy smiled, not really sure how to comment on that. His mother laughed as well, wiping some milk off the sideboard where Mitchell had spilt it.

"Come on, finish up, Freddy; you at the junior school can't be late!"

With impressive wit for an eight-year-old (it had rubbed off on him from Velma), Freddy thought, _Parents… They think they're so funny._

For the first couple of hours at school, everything was normal that day. Daphne tweaked the ascot, laughing, and Shaggy gave it a little tug, but Velma made no comment on it and Scooby (during the day he lived just outside school boundaries) just sniffed it. Freddy knew the Great Dane could smell his uncle on it.

Just after break, the secretary, her face a little white, knocked on the door.

"I need Freddy Jones, in my office, now, please. It's urgent. His parents are here."

Something about the way she said it scared Freddy; something was wrong, really wrong. He silently walked over and she put one hand on his shoulder, saying nothing, just walking him to the office.

The first thing Freddy clocked was that both his parents were crying, and that Mitchell was with them, white-faced and damp-eyed but keeping his composure, certainly a dramatic change to the pompous, trying-to-impress boy who had left the house just a couple of hours earlier. The strange feeling in the pit of Freddy's stomach increased, turning to dark dread.

"Mom… Dad?"

His dad reached out and pulled him into a hug.

"Freddy… It's your uncle. Your uncle James. He's… He's been killed. In an accident at work. About half an hour ago. They just called us to tell us… Tell us what happened. He was fixing a Land Rover and the car lift failed and crushed him. He was taken to hospital but they couldn't save him. The funeral's due for tomorrow, his girlfriend's doing everything about that."

The speech was delivered in a monotone, but as soon as he'd finished Sam Jones started crying, more like a child his son's age than his normal self. Tears threatened Freddy's eyes, dampening them and calling, _You're going to cry-y… Go on, have a cry…_Freddy forced them back, wanting to be strong, the instinct going through him not to cry. James's voice found its way into his head, saying, _Be strong, my nephew. Be strong for your parents, if not for anything else. _He kept his composure, only just, but he kept it. Mitchell submitted to his tears, but Freddy blocked them, some eight-year-old instinct blocking them- maybe Mitchell's presence, maybe his uncle's voice in his head, maybe simply Freddy's inbred stubbornness. Something kept his eyes dry and his voice steady.

"I'll go back to class."

Nobody challenged him as he left the office, his face carefully turned away from the rest of the world, looking into an empty computer suite. _He's dead… He's dead… Be strong… He's dead, crushed by a car lift at work… The pain he must have felt… _He saw his uncle's strong young torso crushed by devilish, cold and unfeeling grey metal, the dominating, dark Land Rover on top of them, the colleagues rushing to help but too late. He felt more than heard his uncle's screams; they echoed through his head as he pushed the door open and quietly sat down next to Shaggy, who stared at him.

"Like, man, Freddy, what happened?"

Freddy shook his head, and saw his reflection in the window next to him. He was as pale as snow-covered sugar paper.

"Nothing. Really. Nothing."

Daphne put her hand on his arm, but he shook her off. Velma reached over and tried to meet his eyes, but he refused to look at her, looking out of the window. The teacher walked over.

"The secretary told me what happened, Freddy. I'm so sorry," she whispered. "You shouldn't be in class right now. Maybe you should go for a walk outside, try and clear your head?"

He nodded wordlessly and stood up. He hadn't said a word since the news had been delivered, which was unlike him.

"OK. Out you go. I'll be keeping an eye on you from my desk, so don't go off school boundaries or anything, please, Freddy."

He walked out without even so much as a nod.

Walking round the school playing field didn't help. In his head he was seeing last year's Sports Day, and his uncle was in the crowd, cheering him, yelling at the top of his lungs and whooping when Freddy won his race. He had rushed out and scooped his nephew into his arms, and Freddy had laughed and laughed and laughed, on top of the world, on top of the moon, so happy it had felt like a huge bubble of joy had burst under his skin, spreading its contents through his system, soaking into every inch of his being. Now the sports field was silent and overcast, the grey sky threatening and ugly, promising rain with a grey foggy grin. Freddy closed his eyes as it began to rain. His uncle had liked the rain; when Freddy was little he'd teased him, saying it was little drops of stardust from outer space, and though Freddy had never quite bought that he'd often tried to catch the "stardust" as it fell, soaking himself in the process but giving his uncle a good laugh.

He would never hear that laugh again. It hadn't quite sunk in yet. Nor feel those strong arms, more than often with a few cuts from his woodworking. He had been almost as danger-prone as Daphne would prove to be in later years. It would never happen again. Barely conscious of what he was doing, Freddy cupped his hands and caught a little rain in them.

_More stardust, Uncle James._

And then the dam burst, and suddenly the drops of water rolling down his cheeks weren't from the rain, they were salty and warm and falling from two blue eyes. Freddy tilted his head up at the sky, hating each drop, not even knowing why, wanting to be somewhere else, anywhere, but at his uncle's side in the workshop seemed a good place to start. He gasped involuntarily, feeling the cold water rolling down his back, and he started running, running for the fence that separated him and the rest of Ohio.

"Freddy! Freddy, get back here!"

His teacher's voice, calling over the rain, but Freddy didn't care; every fibre of his eight-year-old being told him the same thing- to get out of there. Ignoring the shouts, he swung his legs over the fence and started running, aiming for his house.

He was halfway there when he saw himself, and he stopped, startled for a second. It was a little puddle on the pavement, and although he was rippled and distorted he could see the tears running down his face, his hair flattened onto his head and the dripping wet ascot clinging grimly to his neck.

_The ascot. Uncle James's present to me._

He ripped it from his neck in one fluid motion. The small piece of cloth was in his fist, hanging limply from it, soaked through. He turned it over and found the label, his heart thumping as he remembered the message- but it was permanent marker, the best money could buy. It was still etched into the silk, as obvious as ever.

_To Freddy, my nephew. I hope you will wear this, I know you will like it. From your uncle, James._

Freddy could have done three things, and in his state of mind any of them was possible. One, he could have dropped it into the puddle. Two, he could have put it back on. Three, he could have stuffed it into his pocket and carried on running.

He chose three.

To put the ascot on would be too painful, and to discard it was out of the question completely. This was a little bit of his uncle, a little bit that he could wear everyday and nobody would question; it was something he knew in the future he would treasure, but for the moment was just too raw. He stuffed it roughly into his pocket and ran for his life, throwing himself into the house (it was unlocked, and he guessed his parents were back home) and up into his bedroom, deliberately not looking at the sign on the door but also not knocking it off.

Enough was enough. He buried his face in his arms and sobbed with every ounce of his being. He was an eight-year-old boy who was shocked, upset, bereaved and had been putting a brave face on when all he wanted to do was cry his heart out. It wasn't something he felt regularly, and it wasn't something he would feel regularly in the future, but it was there in strength right now.

He could hear footsteps, his name being called gently. Nothing mattered, not even Mitchell seeing, because it was Mitchell's voice.

Mitchell gently pushed the door open to see his brother, wet and dishevelled, lying on his stomach on top of his bed and crying harder than he had ever seen. The sobs racked his body, making him shudder and tremble, and he paid no attention to the boy who entered his room until that boy walked over, pulled him up roughly and pulled him into a hug.

Mitchell's maturity suddenly went sky-high.

And then strength didn't matter, the male façade was gone; two brothers held each other and mourned together, mourned for their dead uncle and for the bond that had held the younger of the pair and the man they cried for so tightly, and had been severed by one faulty car lift.

I suppose you could say, in that instant, Freddy became what he became.

Many years later, he still wore that ascot; it was in his pocket whenever he had taken it off, near him whenever he slept, with him constantly.

So, when you watch _Scooby-Doo, Where Are You? _and question why Freddy wears an ascot, read this through again. And when you question why he took it off, remember: it's never far away from him.

Something doesn't have to be pretty, or elegant, or fancy, to be precious.

It just has to be that way for the right reasons.


End file.
